


The Fourteenth Century

by CuddlyHawk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 14th Century, Black Plague, Death, Fourteenth century, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hallucinations, Lots and Lots of Death, Maggots, Solitary Confinement, Suicidal Thoughts, The Black Plague, Vomiting, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlyHawk/pseuds/CuddlyHawk
Summary: "One of the nice things about Time, Crowley always said, was that it was steadily taking him further away from the fourteenth century." With Crowley's powers restricted, allowing him to do nothing but helplessly watch from within a jail cell, the Black Plague that ripped through Europe is largely the reason why he hated the 14th century so much. Mind the tags.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 398





	The Fourteenth Century

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It’s mentioned how much Crowley hated the 14th century...](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/555625) by fireflysummers. 



> I saw [this comic](https://fireflysummers.tumblr.com/post/190570005531/fireflysummers-its-mentioned-how-much-crowley) by [fireflysummers](https://fireflysummers.tumblr.com/), which is actually based on [10yrsy's designs](https://10yrsyart.tumblr.com/tagged/DolphinsAndDucksAU) for bookverse Aziraphale and Crowley, and was immediately struck with inspiration and had to write a story for it.
> 
> It's pretty graphic, sorry. But I wanted to show how intense the situation was for Crowley, for him to be in such a state by the time Aziraphale rescues him. Please mind the tags, and if anything squicks you out, please don't read! (I squirmed while writing the maggot scene)
> 
> Stay safe, and happy reading!

In such close quarters, it was easy for disease to spread. Crowley peered warily up from his arms crossed tightly over his knees as he sat in the corner of the damp stone cell. The noises of retching and crying and begging had become normal to him at this point, and his eyes were hollow with resignation.

Sure, he had tried at first. When the Black Death had started its rounds, Crowley tried his best to discreetly help those affected, but Hell caught wind of what he was doing, and proceeded to turn off his powers temporarily. He was still a demon, and therefore immune to human illnesses, but he could perform no miracles. When he had been caught trying to cause non-miraculous demonic mischief by pick-pocketing, he had been caught and tossed unceremoniously into the cell he was currently huddled in. But very soon after, the disease spread and quickly overtook the entire jail, and they had been quarantined. No guards coming in, no prisoners coming out.

They had been left here to die. And one by one, they did.

Crowley watched as people became sick, declined at an alarming rate, and died right there in their cell. And with no one to clean out the bodies, the others began to go mad as the stench of dead flesh filled the rooms. Each cell had around three or four people in it, and with the whole hallway filled with eight or so cells, there were plenty of dead bodies to permeate the air with.

It was day four, and the last of the survivors were crying with hunger and thirst, large black blisters bubbling over their skin as their bodies succumbed to the illness. And still, Crowley sat, numb to it all. He had tried, oh he tried. But his powers were secured behind the impenetrable lock that only Hell had the key to. He couldn't escape, couldn't call for help, couldn't will everyone healthy or free. He was useless.

And even though he knew it wasn't true, Crowley felt guilty. As though all these deaths were somehow his fault. He knew this was not the case, but he couldn't help but feel a wave of guilt every time he heard someone's death rattle through the hall.

Surrounded by blackened limbs and wheezing breaths and the smell of death and decay, Crowley waited.

Surely someone would notice his absence?

Surely Hell would give his powers back?

Surely the angel would set him free?

Surely...not.

There was a small, barred window in his cell, so he could see outside. Despite this, after the last human perished, Crowley still lost track of time.

Days seemed to blur all around him. The swarm of flies that filled the jail became thick and loud.

It was shocking how quickly after death that human bodies start to decompose.

Movement startled Crowley and he blinked for the first time in...weeks? He dragged his gaze up and looked at one of the bodies, positive that he was losing his mind. But he saw the movement again. A flutter, around the person's eye.

Crowley's breath froze in his chest. Was the person coming alive again? He scrambled up to all fours and crawled over, but immediately recoiled with a gag that shuddered through his whole body. Hundreds of tiny, squirming maggots had made a home over the corpse's eyes, nose, and mouth.

Crowley gagged again. This time, some kind of thick, green mucous dribbled from his lip to puddle at his knees. He stumbled back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to erase the vision from his mind. But it was there, whether his eyes were closed or not.

He was sick with the memory and the guilt and he wanted nothing more than to escape.

"Please," he whispered to whoever would listen. "Please, please. I didn't mean to. I didn't want this to happen..."

But as they had been for over three thousand years, his prayers went unanswered.

Crowley spent most of his time staring at nothing, just wondering when he would be free again. But he also spent a lot of time thinking about what Aziraphale would say when he found out what Crowley had been up to during the Black Plague. By this point, he was sure Aziraphale assumed it was all his doing, and he would have to explain himself, and just hope beyond all hope that Aziraphale would believe him.

The flesh on the bodies started to melt away, leaving behind bones that sat and stank in the cells.

Reluctantly—and carefully avoiding even looking at the mummified remains of his cellmates—Crowley shakily got to his feet and peered out the cell window. The weather was starting to get colder out. When he went in, it was the beginning of summer. So it must have been almost six months since his imprisonment and subsequent solitary confinement torture.

Crowley looked down at his hands, crusty with grime. Brushed back his sticky hair that desperately needed a thorough washing. Glanced down at his jail attire: a light prisoners' uniform, torn and ragged in places. He remembered how, when the disease first began to spread through the cell, they all began to attack one another in fear. Crowley did his best to stay out of it, what with no powers and all. But in such close quarters, he was bound to be dragged into the fray.

Faintly, the memory played behind Crowley's eyes. The smaller man in the cell had smuggled in a switchblade and had been using it to jiggle at the lock on the cell door. The other man in the cell used his brute strength to wrench the man away from the door so he could try to pick the lock himself. They got into a fight, and Crowley tried to drag them apart.

Crowley's fingers absently trailed over the pink scar on his side, where the knife had been wildly swung around in the scuffle and had slashed him. Getting sliced across the ribs hurt regardless of whether you were a demon or a human. Overall, he managed to avoid invoking anyone's wrath and the only real injury he had was the scar, but he began to wonder if staying alive was really worth it after all this time. If he were discorporated, he would have gotten a new body and wouldn't have been stuck in this cell with such a thick smell in the air.

Perhaps...

Perhaps he could discorporate himself and be done with it? Just get on with the process of getting a new body so he could get out of here.

His fingers pressed harder over the scar, long healed by now, and wondered. If the blade hadn't broken off inside the lock, could he have used it to discorporate himself?

He sighed, feeling sick. He was never one to condone self-discorporation, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He had no idea how much longer he would be stuck here, and he didn't think he could bear to watch his cellmates continue to rot in front of him.

But he also couldn't bring himself to self-discorporation.

The weather slowly began to warm up again, and Crowley spent all his time pressed against the freezing wall, drifting in and out of sleep as he shivered the hours away. Sometimes he dreamt he was free again, sometimes he dreamt the skeletons around him came to life. He had started hearing voices, and he knew that couldn't be a good sign.

One time he had a whole conversation about penguins with one of the skeletons down the hall. After he came to his senses, he was so ashamed and afraid, he closed his mouth and refused to open it again.

And there he lay. Days, weeks, months of the same nothingness.

Until one day, something new.

A snap, and then a smell like ozone. It was such a stark difference to the decay and rot Crowley had gotten sickeningly used to, and it made him crinkle his nose and peer his head up from its place mashed against the wall. Footsteps somewhere down the hall. Crowley froze. A guard? What would they think if they saw he was still alive? He would be taken to a church, no doubt, and exorcised. No, he had to pretend like he was dead. Bit hard to do, when all the other people who were actually dead were nothing but skeletons by this point, but he had to think of something.

Another snap, and another ozone tang. And suddenly, the hallway door swung open, and Crowley felt himself sob with relief and incredible fear. It wasn't a guard, thank goodness. He would never have been able to explain that downstairs. But the ice that settled into his chest made him shake with fear. It wasn't a human at all that stared disbelievingly into the Hallway of Death.

It was Aziraphale.

A low, keening sound began in Crowley's throat, and he began to babble through his dry throat. "Az...Aziraphale. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The icy feeling spread to his limbs, and the trembling became severe. He was acutely aware of the skeletons all around him, and the guilt came back tenfold. "I didn't mean– It wasn't me!" His brain struggled to make sentences, like it was processing through molasses. But he had to make him understand. He needed Aziraphale to know that he had tried his best. "I swear it," he whispered, cowering back as Aziraphale took a step toward the cell door and pushed it open with a miracle. "Angel, I swear. I'm sorry."

Aziraphale took another step closer, reaching out for him with an unreadable expression. Crowley crumpled, squeezing his eyes shut and choking out his words. "P-Please believe me, I wouldn't– I'd never– **_Please!_** _"_

Crowley felt strong arms surround him, and he suddenly found himself in a tight embrace, face pressed against the angel's lapel.

"Of course I believe you," Aziraphale whispered into his hair as he ran a comforting hand up and down his shivering back. Crowley made another noise, a mix between about to cry and about to throw up. But Aziraphale held him securely, whispering softly to him. "Rest now," he was saying. "Rest from this whole awful affair."

Quite suddenly, Crowley felt himself begin to sag with exhaustion. If he were in his right mind, he may have thought there was something a bit...'miraculous' about how easily he was able to let go. But for now, he was content to soak up every drop of comfort Aziraphale had to offer.

As he drifted off, he heard Aziraphale saying above him, "And dream of whatever it is that you like best."

In his sleep, Crowley curled more tightly against Aziraphale as the angel whisked them away from that wretched place. For the first time in over a year, Crowley's dreams of rescue rang true. And for the first time in over three thousand years, Crowley's prayers were answered by the only holy being in the universe who really mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> After I finished writing this, I found [this post from fireflysummers](https://fireflysummers.tumblr.com/post/190591070671/crow-with-the-fudging-14th-century-emo-hair-style) that says 10yrsy suggested Crowley was taken by some cult, and that's how he ended up in the cell in fireflysummer's comic, but it was already over 1800 words too late for me xDD


End file.
